Night In A Waste Land (Hell Theory #2) - Lauren Gilley Page 0,63

put his fellow angel in the pit.”

“A fallen angel.”

“Is there any difference?”

She shivered again.

In front of the window, secondary to its splendor, she noted a raised dais, and a heavy, black wooden chair. A seat. A throne, she thought, with a lurch. It was carved, and grand, and could be nothing less, at the top of three wide, ebon steps.

“He thought himself a king,” Beck said. He kissed her temple, her cheek, lingering, inhaling – as though he could smell her better now, or perhaps had merely missed the scent of sweat on her skin. Then he pulled back from her, and walked toward the dais, wings folding elegant and cape-like down his back.

Rose watched as he climbed the stairs, turned, and then sat, as graceful as ever, wings adjusting with a few flicks and a smoothing of his hands. They folded behind him in a way she hadn’t expected, looking even more like a cape. He crossed his legs, propped an elbow on the arm of the throne and rested his chin on his fist. With his sharp face, and the elegant, coiled-spring strength of his lean body, he looked every inch the negligent royal. The horns caught a stray bit of light from somewhere, gleaming like a crown.

“Oh,” she murmured aloud, unable to help herself. In the five years since she’d lost him, she’d become near-expert in controlling herself, but he was back now, and she felt unmoored, and out of control.

He tipped his head back, so he regarded her from low-lidded, glowing eyes. “What do you think?” he asked.

She snorted – but then sobered, because he wasn’t joking. “I think the chair looks better on you than on Castor.”

He grinned, a fast flash of teeth. And fangs. “You never saw him here.”

“No. But I saw him. He doesn’t compare.”

His grin stretched. “Thank you, sweetheart. I’m quite flattered.”

Sweetheart. Lance called her that, too. Sometimes.

She’d spent the past five years perfecting the masks she wore, learning to cloak and guard her expressions. Sometimes she caught her reflection in a bit of glass, and was startled by how lifeless she looked.

But Beck could read her. His head tilted a fraction. “He really is your soldier, isn’t he?”

Shit. For one awful moment, he looked like a stranger. Perfectly composed, curious, questioning – she searched for little signs of tension in his face, and could find none.

Belatedly, she realized she was searching for Lance’s usual tells. In Beck’s face.

She took a breath, and shifted her focus. Searched for the old, familiar, well-loved, long-grieved tells. The little flickers she’d glimpsed in the library firelight once upon a time. She found Beck’s tension in the whiteness of his knuckles, in the way his claws bit into the black wood of the throne, and in the slight flaring of his nostrils on each inhale.

She took another breath, and felt steadier. “I didn’t start out wanting to join the military, after…everything. But Lance had made me an offer, and after a few months of roughing it on my own, I decided it was safer and easier with them than it was out on the streets.”

His lips pressed together, a considering half-frown. “The military, sure. But you signed up to become a Rift Walker. That’s above and beyond.” He didn’t sound disapproving – but not approving, either.

“I don’t like the idea of being average,” she said. “If you’re going to do something, you might as well be the best at it.”

He grinned, a fast flash of teeth. “There’s my girl.”

“And I am. Good at it, that is.”

His brows lifted. “The best?”

“Yes.”

He shifted in his seat, posture relaxing, crossing one long leg over the other. The way his boots fit – a spare pair of lace-up combats loaned courtesy of Gavin – over his trim ankles and strong calves was distracting. She’d missed this so much – looking at him, the elegant, purposeful way he moved and held himself.

His grin softened, and his head tipped the other way, damp hair sliding across his shoulders. “I’m not angry,” he said, softly.

“About what?”

“You’re a beautiful, healthy young woman. You have appetites. And you had no way of knowing if you’d ever see me again.”

She sucked in a breath. Five years ago, she would have gone down on her knees and asked for his forgiveness. I’m so sorry I slept with someone else. It didn’t mean anything. I love you.

She did love him, still, fiercely, violently. But his smooth assurance left her hackles lifting. “You say that like I can’t control